


Sticks and Stones

by Oxford Comma (shatterdame), shatterdame



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, alternate universe - no beach divorce, trust building, will probably eventually have smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7873558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatterdame/pseuds/Oxford%20Comma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatterdame/pseuds/shatterdame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik stays after Cuba to take care of Charles. Charles is understandably very hurt and angry. Erik wants to atone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Terms

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'alllllll  
> So here's the No Divorce AU I've been formulating for awhile. It's a WIP so I'll be posting as I go - shouldn't be too long and I should be updating regularly.   
> Rated mature for *future chapters*.  
> Enjoy!~

Charles wakes up and he can’t feel his legs. 

He couldn’t feel his legs when he went to sleep and he can’t feel them now.  He was on a beach, watching his own blood seep into the sand and he  _ couldn’t feel it. _

He gasps, the fear hitting him hard in the chest, tears springing to his eyes. He is suddenly aware of the tubes, the needles, the thin cotton gown, scratchy against his upper back, but not his lower. The walls are white, the ceiling is white, the light is blinding and he’s panicking. He lifts his hand and places it on his thigh - or what  _ should be  _ his thigh, not that he would know. His breath is coming fast and hard as he digs his fingers in, tries to find purchase beneath him. The signals are mixing in his brain  _ fingers: yes, legs: -- _

He screams, the sound tearing itself out of his lungs and reverberating in the small room. He is screaming and screaming -

“Charles--!”

He keeps screaming.

“Charles -- Charles it’s alright --”

Charles swings in the direction of the voice. A hand flies up to grasp his wrist, keeping him from connecting with the helmet.

_ The helmet. _

Charles struggles, tries to pull his arm away. The grip tightens.

“Let me go!”

Erik’s mouth is a hard line behind the helmet, his eyes bathed in shadow, expressionless.

“No, Charles, not until you calm down.”

Charles stares unflinchingly back, taking it as a challenge. He forces himself to take a deep breath, then another, trying to ignore the quiet in his head. 

Erik’s grip eventually loosens, Charles tugging his arm away. He pushes his hands back into his thighs.

“Why are you here?”

Erik has the courtesy to look affronted, eyebrows pulling together.

“What?”

Charles never could read Erik’s face - always a hint of an emotion, but nothing strong enough to read. Erik must know this - must know the helmet makes it that much harder for Charles. To  _ keep Charles out --  _

“I said, why are you here?!”

“Why - Charles, why do you think I’m here?”

Charles is silent for a long time, jaw clenching and unclenching as he tries to organize his thoughts. It’s so - quiet - just his own mind reeling against itself, no one else to read and interpret. It hurts.

“Guilt.” Charles swallows, a lump forming in his throat. “I think you’re here because you put a bullet in my back and you feel guilty.” Charles is starting to breathe quickly again, fingers clenching and unclenching in a steady rhythm against the paper thin sheets.

“Charles --”

“You betrayed me - you  **_crippled_ ** me - and now, what? You want me to forgive you?” 

Erik’s hand darts out presumably to comfort him, but it lands on his thigh - he thinks. He watches his thumb drag along the sheet and thinks he can remember what that would’ve felt like, before. The dissonance sends him spiraling again, his rage flaring up to fill the gaps.

“I won’t give you that, Erik! I won’t forgive you, _comfort_ you, just so you can move onto the next mistake! I won’t enable you Erik, I won’t!”

He’s surprised he got all of it out before the panic descends, rattling his ribs with the force of it. 

“Charles --”

“Get out!”

“Charles, please --”

“I said get out!!”

“I’m not leaving! Now breathe,  _ verdammt _ , or I’m going to get the nurse!”

Charles forces a breath in through his nose and then out slowly and violently. He does this a few times, eyes flicking back and forth from Erik to the surrounding room. As he calms, the rage drains out of him and is replaced with a numbness he doesn’t care to explore. His legs, his heart, his mind. He is slipping into the void and he has half a mind to take Erik with him.

“I’m not here for forgiveness.”

Charles doesn’t stir, counting the tiles in the ceiling.

“I’m here to help.”

Charles bristles at that, his thoughts kicking and pushing against the iron wall of Erik’s helmet.  **_I don’t need your help._ **

“I thought you left.”

“I didn’t.”

Charles huffs a laugh.

“You passed out - “

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Charles --”

“Erik.”

Charles’s eyes are steel. They bore into Erik, resolute. 

“You aren’t going to get rid of me, Charles.”

“Oh, I’m not?”

**_No._ **

The thought is so clear and sharp in his head, a razor blade and a balm all at once. Charles whips his head around to find Erik without the helmet. He’s staring down at it, running his fingers over the edges. He meets Charles’s gaze before pointedly setting the helmet down on the bedside table.

**_This is the only peace offering I can give. Please just let me help._ **

****Charles blinks back the tears, keeping his eyes trained on Erik's. He is so, so angry.

But for the moment, it is enough.


	2. Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik remains by Charles's bedside.  
> warning: mentions of getting sick/vomit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter!  
> I realize my chapters are pretty short - I realize it's easier to manage that way and it's nice to be able to keep posting regularly.  
> I hope you enjoy!

Erik is deeply unsettled by hospitals.

It’s not a rational thing, he knows, and that makes it all the worse. It’s an instinctive reaction, a traumatic imprint of needles and scalpels and stainless steel that flashes behind his eyes. He hates it - squashing any doubts that the metal would obey him.  The instruments sing to him, call out to him, and taunt him in equal measure.

He only leaves whenever Charles slips back into sleep, gets himself a watery cup of coffee and something to eat from the cafeteria.  When he makes his way back to the rehabilitation floor, the stench of medical-grade disinfectant makes him gag. He swallows, downing the rest of his coffee. He rounds the corner to Charles’s room, wonders if  the telepath knows just how much this place bothers him. 

 

“I do know, I am sorry.”

 

Erik looks up to find Charles upright in bed. He spares Erik an apologetic glance. He’s not sure if it’s for their surroundings or overhearing his thoughts. He assumes both.

Erik takes his usual place in the chair beside the bed, reaching out a cup to Charles.

“I brought you some tea. “ Charles reaches out, his fingers skimming Erik’s as he takes the cup. He feels the warmth flare through him at the touch, like magnets snapping together. Charles brings the cup to his nose, inhaling in a long drag and sighing.

 

“Are you supposed to be giving me this?” Erik hadn’t thought of that. He knew Charles was missing it, so he’d fetched some. He shrugs, mouth quirking up slightly at the thought of contraband Earl Grey. 

 

“Thank you.” Charles gives a small smile back, tracing his finger around the rim of the cup. 

 

He knows how hard this is for the both of them. Erik feels it in his chest, like a vice around his ribs, squeezing when Charles huffs out his little sounds of discomfort. 

It’s only been a week, but it feels like a lifetime. Erik spends his time by Charles’s side, retrieving anything and anyone he needs. He had taken off the helmet that first day, hoping it was the first step to repairing what he had shattered on the beach. It may have seemed like a small gesture before, but now it is nothing less than a herculean effort. He tries to keep some semblance of himself open, hoping the trust would come with sheer willpower. It is a fight, however, to shield that part of himself that is spiraling. Charles wasn’t entirely wrong - he is unbearably guilty - but as it threatens to bubble up within him, pulls the bile into his throat and the fire into his head, it feels like something else. The burn is too strong and too sharp to be simply regret. It’s more sour, pumps through his veins like acid, searing him from the inside. He realizes he’s felt this before - a sense memory, wrapped around the picture of his mother’s death. He has an idea what it is, but he tries to stomp it out, pushes it back to the corners of his mind where he hopes Charles won’t see. If it’s what he thinks it is, he doesn’t deserve it anymore. Certainly not after the beach, with Charles’s limp body in his arms, draining out into the sand. The way his eyes had run over with tears, big blue orbs awash with utter despair. If Erik hadn’t been a monster before, there certainly was no doubt now.

Erik blinks -- he’s been lost in thought, unsure how much time has passed. Charles looks vaguely sick, shockingly pale and chewing purposefully on his bottom lip.

“Charles, are you alright?” Charles gives a small shake of his head, the movement too much. 

“No I… I’m sorry I think I’m going to -.” Erik feels the stab of nausea in his mind and quickly reaches for a nearby bedpan. He just manages to get it under Charles before he retches, body heaving with the effort. Erik places a hand on his back, rubbing slightly. That sour feeling resurfaces with a vengeance and in the same moment, Charles is sick again. That’s when Erik’s blood runs cold. Charles told him once that intense emotional projection could make him sick. Charles shoots him a look, wiping his mouth with a tissue. 

“Erik - “ He jumps to his feet, grabbing the bedpan.

“No - I’m going to go… take care of this.” He disappears into the bathroom, putting the bedpan in the sink and turning on the water. He stands for a moment, breathing rapid, gripping the sides of the sink. He convulses, the coffee burning his throat on it’s way back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments super appreciated! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it???   
> Comments and kudos encouraged and sooooo very appreciated!!! <3


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